My grief perhaps his pity may engage; Perhaps at least he may respect my age. He has a father too; a man like me; One, not exempt from age and misery (Vigorous no more, as when his young embrace Begot this pest of me, and all my race). How many valiant sons, in early bloom, Has that cursed hand send headlong to the tomb! Thee, Hector! last: thy loss (divinely brave) Sinks my sad soul with sorrow to the grave. O had thy gentle spirit pass'd in peace, The son expiring in the sire's embrace, While both thy parents wept the fatal hour, And, bending o'er thee, mix'd the tender shower! Some comfort that had been, some sad relief, To melt in full satiety of grief!" Thus wail'd the father, grovelling on the ground, And all the eyes of Ilion stream'd around. Amidst her matrons Hecuba appears: (A mourning princess, and a train in tears;) "Ah why has Heaven prolong'd this hated breath, Patient of horrors, to behold thy death? O Hector! late thy parents' pride and joy, The boast of nations! the defence of Troy! To whom her safety and her fame she owed; Her chief, her hero, and almost her god! O fatal change! become in one sad day A senseless corse! inanimated clay!" But not as yet the fatal news had spread To fair Andromache, of Hector dead; As yet no messenger had told his fate, Not e'en his stay without the Scaean gate. Far in the close recesses of the dome, Pensive she plied the melancholy loom; A growing work employ'd her secret hours, Confusedly gay with intermingled flowers. Her fair-haired handmaids heat the brazen urn, The bath preparing for her lord's return In vain; alas! her lord returns no more; Unbathed he lies, and bleeds along the shore! Now from the walls the clamours reach her ear, And all her members shake with sudden fear: Forth from her ivory hand the shuttle falls, And thus, astonish'd, to her maids she calls: [Illustration: THE BATH.]